Crossed Wires
by ring of rubies
Summary: Sequel to "Your Call Could not be Connected": Hermione worries what to wear on a first date. Draco worries about the end of the world. They're both too busy worrying to consider their communication problems. Small misunderstandings lead to larger worries.
1. The Naked Truth

**Crossed Wires**

* * *

_So, um... I'm back. It's been a while. I wanted to work on my other story but I'm afraid that it's beyond me at this point. I will get to it eventually. Things are complicated and not a lot of fun for me at the moment, and it seems that I need to be in a good mood to write about complicated and not a lot of fun things for other people. _

_SOOOOOO, here's the start to a little sequel for **Your Call Could not be Connected**. "Your Call" is not essential reading for this to make sense but it would probably help. There will be further chapters - two or three depending on how I split it. Enjoy!_

* * *

Hermione Granger put a lot of thought into her wardrobe choice, just she put a lot of time and effort into almost every aspect of her life. "Meticulous" was one word that had been used sevaral times to describe her. The other words were decidedly less complimentary. Hermione knew she was far from meticulous, or any of those other words, because meticulous people didn't forget things like towels when they showered... Sure, she had only done that once, but it was one time too many. And surely, the very definition of meticulous excluded such glaring oversights as forgetting towels. Come to think of it, "pedantic" was one of those words she heard a lot of too.

"Easily distracted" usually wasn't...

To outsiders, it may have seemed that Hermione didn't spend much time following styles and updating her wardrobe with the changes in colour and cut, but she didn't particularly aim to give that impression. In fact, she had decided early on in her career to cultivate a decidedly different impression. Hermione Granger was a professional, and she chose her outfits to reflect this.

While her friends were taking full advantage of the post-war euphoria, Hermione had stepped in to cover personnel shortages at the Ministry and, in doing so, shot up several steps in the official hierarchy. Attire that verged on conservative and plain was a safe option, she figured, for a young witch whose near-meteoric rise through the Ministry ranks had already raised several eyebrows.

She had learnt that particular lesson very quickly into her first week of working at the Ministry, when photographs appeared in the Daily Prophet accompanying an article by Rita Skeeter that argued in no uncertain terms that the quick succession of promotions that had fallen to Hermione was due to more than just her appearance of credibility in the severely compromised Ministry and prodigious work ethic (of course, the Daily Prophet chose not to mention anything about credibility or work ethic). Hermione admitted that her friendship with Harry Potter and her role in defeating Voldemort may have somewhat helped her ascent, but Skeeter's article and the grainy photos accompanying it hadn't focused on that either.

After that, style had sunk way down the list in Hermione's consideration, after her professional image, the longevity of wear, comfort and ease of cleaning. Cleaning was especially important when in regular contact with the Weasley family: spells weren't always enough and the best dry cleaners in town couldn't compete with even half the stains accumulated from the twins' pranks, Ron's eating habits and an ever expanding brood of the next generation of rambunctious Weasleys and Potters.

If people called her clothes 'matronly' and 'dull', so be it. _They_ had obviously never had a four page newspaper spread dedicated to their... "body of work" (Skeeter did have a way with words, even if she was an unscrupulous bitch).

It wasn't strictly accurate, then, to say that Hermione didn't care for clothes or trends. She liked clothes, but she felt a greater attachment to her reputation. It was far more important that the office gossips notice her commitment to work than Barry from the Dept. for Public Works notice her "shapely pair" (Skeeter's words again, without any clarification which pair the 'shapely' comment alluded to). The office gossips had recently been whispering that Barry was gay, anyway, so he was mostly likely uninterested in any of her, or any other woman's, pairs.

That night, though, was a Friday. There were no office gossips to worry about and hopefully no nosey journalists either. Come that Friday night Hermione's worries weren't over full-body coverage. The image she was hoping to send was anything but professional.

Hermione Granger had a date. _So there, Barry!_

A date... A _first _date. It was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

She hadn't been on a date in quite a while (although there hadn't been a lack of offers after that Skeeter article), let alone a first date. It had been over a year, in fact, even though she had been in a relationship. Long term relationships seemed to be less about dates and dinners out, and more about TV time and take away.

Not so much terror, but also very little excitement.

To add to the 'first-first-date-in-years' nervousness, Hermione was faced with a dilemma. And this wasn't one of those easily solved, just go ask your friends for advice and reassurance, dilemmas. This was a never-speak-about-it-to-anyone-because-you-can't-help-but-cringe-even-now-not-to-mention everyone-will-judge-you-what-were-you-_thinking? _dilemma. This was a dilemma. This was... new:

What, exactly, to wear on a first date with a man who had already seen her naked?

A man, who she had purported to hate just one week ago, who had seen her naked...

A man who would undoubtedly place highly among Wizarding Britain's most eligible bachelors, should such a list ever be compiled. A rich, handsome, successful and witty man – all things that she hadn't been able to admit a few short days earlier because at that time she would have insisted he was still an enemy.

An enemy who had seen all of her entire body in its most unforgivingly naked state.

Draco Malfoy had seen her naked...

Draco Malfoy, who she couldn't quite bring herself to call an enemy any more.

Malfoy may no longer have been an enemy, but he had still seen her completely, entirely, totally, absolutely, fully nakedly nude... without any clothes on at all. Not even her _friends _had seen that!

Well, Ron had, but...

Really, she was getting far too worked up about this 'naked' thing, when there were much bigger issues in life...

Like, should she wear her hair up or down?

* * *

Forty minutes later, Hermione stood naked in front of a full length mirror, eyeing her reflection critically.

Half of her wardrobe littered the bed and floor, the few sexy dresses and tops she owned that hadn't seen light of day since that Skeeter article pooled alongside the severely cut and dun-coloured work clothes. Short skirts, long skirts, trousers, jeans, camisoles, button ups, jumpers and jackets, Hermione had tried and discarded them all.

After the caught-naked-out-of-the-shower incident, she was hard pressed to find an outfit that communicated a comfortable middle ground between 'keep your eyes to yourself, you dirty perve' and 'come on in, the water's fine'. Hermione wasn't at the shared showers stage yet, although she was fairly certain Draco would offer, if only to see her reaction. However, if she was perfectly honest, she did want Draco Malfoy to look – she was just in two minds over how much she wanted him to be able to see.

In theory, her outfit probably didn't matter, as he had already seen her naked before they were even on friendly terms, which meant that she could turn up to a date in her underwear and it would still be demure in comparison... Whatever the theory, it was different in practice.

The rules had changed in light of certain events.

The subtle allure of cleavage could be openly provocative when he already knew what her breasts looked like (it was true, the left was slightly larger than the right); trousers that hugged her legs and bum might be an open invitation for him to imagine how she had looked without them on; even the smallest slit in a skirt would only point to things he had already seen like a neon arrow.

At the same time, she didn't want to turn up in shapeless sacks that covered her from neck to ankle. That would be like waving a big STOP sign in his face.

She didn't want to send the wrong message; Hermione just wanted to find an outfit that was dressy enough for that upmarket restaurant where they had agreed to meet, that whispered 'sexy sophisticate' rather than crying out 'sour schoolmarm' or 'slutty slapper'.

And, yes, if Hermione was going to continue being perfectly honest (which was much too easy in the privacy of her own mind), she felt a little pathetic for spending this much time worrying over her clothing when he had seen it all before (just the once, though).

She was also very aware that the only reason this date was happening was _because_ he had seen her naked…

She had acknowledged it and moved on because, after she had realised his teasing lacked a malicious edge, he had been fun. Draco made her laugh, when she had stopped squirming in embarrassment, and he continued to make a nuisance of himself until she actually missed his irritating face and bothersome voice. But by that time he hadn't seemed like such an irritating, bothersome nuisance at all.

She had accepted his offer for many reasons, but mostly, because she wanted to say yes.

Draco had asked for _one_ reason.

He had pestered her, kept asking her after the initial refusal, for that one reason only...

Hermione Granger was a clever girl.

She didn't need Rita Skeeter to write it in fifty foot high letters in the Daily Prophet to know that Draco Malfoy hadn't asked her out because he admired her work ethic.

* * *

_Chapter 2 will be up soon. _

_I just re-read my A/N at the beginning and realised "Oh no. I used the word 'ironically' in the wrong context. The readers will judge me and my improper word usage. There will be a revolution. They will storm FanFiction moderators and demand my woeful writing - just the Author's Note, mind you, the rest of the story is pretty good - be removed because it offends their intelligence." So I logged in **solely **to change it. I'm such a nerd._


	2. Just His Luck

**Crossed Wires**

* * *

___Here's number 2, in which Draco ups the anxious ante because he's, you know, competitive or something... _

* * *

Draco Malfoy didn't need to spend time on his outfits.

There was no preening in front of the mirror for him (_though many accused him of it_). Neither did he fuss over his hair. It just wasn't necessary. Draco believed that appearances were important, of course (_almost more than anything else_), and it was for this exact reason he did not need to worry.

His wardrobe was full of robes, suits and miscellaneous articles of clothing, all variations on the same, classically tailored theme.

He paid his tailor to think about cut, colour and fabric so that he didn't have to.

Someone, he assumed a House Elf, had always laid his clothes out first thing in the morning so he never had to think about that either.

His father had warned him once that too many decisions would cause a man to go bald. When the hard decisions had to be made, Lucius had made it clear that they would be decided by someone else. That went a long way to explained why Lucius, who went on and on about his superiority to everyone else, was seemingly so content to follow the orders of the Dark Lord... who, incidentally, was bald. As skewed as that logic many be, and as reprehensible as Draco now thought his father's actions, he had to at least concede that the man had always had terrific hair.

Hair that Draco had inherited... and that he planned to keep.

That hair, as much as his money, bearing, good breeding, ancestral Manor or magic, signalled that he was a Malfoy. And it was out of respect to the generations before him and the deference the name Malfoy afforded him, that he made sure that his hair and clothes were always impeccably styled.

He knew he looked good. He was a Malfoy, after all; countless Galleons had ensured it, not to mention centuries of carefully planned marriages.

It wasn't that he never had an off day (_even Malfoys occasionally suffered under-eye bags_), it was just that having a good foundation to work with made disguising it all that much easier... Not that he wore make up; it was just when the groundwork had all been accomplished ahead of time, it made presenting a good image in the morning a lot easier after a rough night... Not that he was into the kinky stuff, mind you; sure, he was always up for trying something new, but you had to draw the line somewhere and there were some things that he just wasn't comfortable doing... Not that he was close-minded, of course.

So, Draco didn't obsess over his clothes or his hair. There was no need. He paid others to obsess about it for him. It was a guilt free exercise too, his tailor already had a comb over, his hair stylist was female (_his father had never said anything about women making decisions_) and Elves were mostly hairless. Some people - well, all his House Elves really - even did it for free.

He expressed his nerves in a different way, by retreating into his head (_it was a very handsome head, too_). He worried silently - what if the reservation was cancelled? Should he greet her with a hug, kiss, nod or handshake? What if she didn't turn up? - double and triple checking his plans for that night, questioning Hermione's motivations and going over defensive spells and manoeuvres (_just in case_). It did nothing to ease his worries that they had managed a rather long and drawn out Floo and phone acquaintance without injury.

He was convinced a date was as far removed from a phone conversation as it was possible to get. There was a completely different dynamic and added pressures. 1) A date was longer. Or it _would_ be... if his luck held out just a little bit longer... just a _little _bit longer. He crossed the fingers of one hand and tapped the fist of his other against the top of his hard wood desk. 2) There wasn't the option to hang up if they ran out of things to say. And 3) if (_when_) he crossed a line, he would be within arm's reach rather than just a floating, disembodied head…

There were both positives and negatives in that.

He stopped worrying, for just a moment, while he considered the positives.

* * *

Perhaps Draco had considered the positive for more than just a short moment. They had been deliciously distracting after all, those positives. But alas, all good things must come to an end. He just hoped that their date wouldn't end like it had in his imagination. That would **hurt**, to put it mildly. Hermione wasn't _that _vindictive in real life, was she? It was a cause for concern, yet another to add to the growing list of potential embarrassments and likely tragedies that could disrupt his date. Hermione's spellcasting ability and knowledge of arcane magic seemed to account for close to 90 percent of the current list.

Draco's co-workers had noticed his preoccupation and it had clearly spooked them. His obvious anxiety, vacant stare and silence had been taken as a sign of personal illness and he had spent most of the morning answering concerned questions about his stress levels.

Around lunch time the topic of questions had broadened to include the health of his parents, the state of the company and his personal resources until Draco, tired of the constant queries, had snapped.

His employees had shrugged at that and turned back to their desks. A shouting, surly or sarcastic Draco Malfoy was hardly a new sight around the office. He would eventually stop snarling and sulking and then everyone could get some real work done. Plus, he'd probably buy them lunch the next day to apologise for his foul mood. It was one of the perks of working for a man with a notoriously short fuse and a legendarily extensive share portfolio.

Their boss went right back to worrying, albeit with his office door closed. He also made a note to organise a catered lunch some time to say sorry, but at that point in time he had bigger problems to consider:

What if the date was a complete and utter disaster?

There was already enough bad history between he and Hermione that should have made even the idea of their dating an impossibility. He had always sort of assumed that even the prodigal luck of the Malfoys had not been up to the task of all that overcoming all that bad… Draco paused. He wasn't going to finish that sentence with "blood", even in his own head. It would just asking for trouble.

He had been certain that his father must have exhausted the admittedly small stash of Malfoy good-karma. Lucius had managed to weather two turns as a loyal henchman to Voldemort and remained a fairly influential and remotely respectable social figure, even now. Draco had made it through Dumbledore's death and the war virtually unscathed himself, even if it felt like he had spent the whole time huddled in a corner sobbing and shitting his pants in fear, the point remained that he had survived. Just his living this long had to have put the Malfoys into a negative balance, karmically speaking. Merlin knows, they were still rolling in Galleons.

He had assumed that his luck had run dry, right up until Hermione had said "yes".

"Yes."

But surely that small word had scraped the bottom of the barrel.

Her forgiveness, and his nerves, would be hard pressed to survive the many horrors that Draco would sure would now befall him. He had tested his luck to its breaking point and he was sure that any minute now it was snap back at him, a rubber band that had been stretched too far, and hit him square in the eye.

There had been a sign this morning, _a portent_, when a lace had broken off as he had been tying his shoes. He wasn't usually one to put give much weight to signs and portents (_no one who had made it through Trelawney's classes did_), but Draco was convinced that this was a sign, that it had to be symbolic somehow, even if there was no mention of anything similar in any of the Divination books in his library.

If vague shapes in tea leaves could predict death, a snapped off shoelace must signal something far more serious. The only explanation for the fact that there had been no mention of it in any of his books was that it foretold of an future so bleak or an event so devestating that the Seer couldn't possibly survive to write about it.

Probably the end of the world... His horoscope had mentioned an 'unpleasant result of rash actions'. He'd guess that the day of reckoning would be reasonably unpleasant.

Draco had always figured the Malfoys would have a hand in the destruction of civilisation, but even he hadn't anticipated that it would extend further than the UK.

He and his damn luck had killed the entire world.

_Good going, Draco.__ The handshake or hug problem seems pretty small now, doesn't it?_

His luck had survived their history as childhood enemies, their position on opposite sides of the war, his pureblood prejudice and her do-gooder intentions… heck, it even survived him seeing her butt naked (_and it was quite a nice arse now he came to think of it, pert and round and–_)... he should have stopped there and just been thankful to have survived the wrath of Hermione Granger in addition to a Wizarding war. Instead, he kept pushing his luck. Kept asking. Kept bugging her.

Then one day she had still said yes.

That one yes....had doomed the world.

He was being melodramatic. The world probably wouldn't end. _Probably... _and the assumption that his dating practices played any sort of factor in an apocalypse was clearly a sign of rampant pessimism or a severely overblown ego, Draco just wasn't sure which.

But it didn't alter the fact that he had still used up a lifetime's worth of good fortune in one fell swoop.

Which, admittedly, wouldn't present a huge problem if the world really did end at midnight.

"Yes".

Screw the world. It had been worth it...

"Yes."

He was either the world's luckiest bastard or a lifetime of bad karma was going to dump on him at once.

Draco groaned, resting his head in his hands, fisting his fingers in his hair. He almost wept with the realisation… He was going to go bald, he just _knew _it!

And yet, somehow his anxiety over that coming night still managed to surpass his deeply held fears of a lifetime of baldness.

Not to mention, the end of the world...

* * *

Draco Malfoy had, in this vein, worried away a full working day.

He ended his day with a headache, a bad mood and the disgusting new habit of biting his nails. But he had made some important decisions in that time: He had decided not to mention the nakedness. Not even obliquely hint at it. He had already had a lot of fun at her expense over that, but it had always been over the Floo so she couldn't really do much damage as pay back. Even joking about nudity could only serve to put Hermione on the defensive, which in all probability wouldn't lead to any of those positive aspects of being in arm's distance...

Likewise, he had decided against bringing flowers or chocolate, because it really was a bit presumptuous. He wasn't trying to bribe her into going out with him (though he would consider that option should the need arise) and the last thing Draco wanted was a lecture on how modern women were self sufficient and could easily buy themselves flowers and chocolates should they be required. Actually, the very last thing he wanted was for her to refuse them because they could possibly be cursed or poisoned. He didn't want to remind anyone about necklaces and that persistent joke about accepting gifts a Malfoy without Aurors present. Sure, it was a _joke _now, but for a year after the war it had been an official Ministry policy...

He had agonised over chocolate and flowers and the end of the world from 9 am through to 5pm, with only a break for lunch. When, clumsiness being another apocalyptic portent, he'd predictably spilt coffee and sauce on himself. It had gone unnoticed for most of the afternoon, and by the time Draco thought to Scourgify his clothes, he had been too preoccupied and nervous to do a proper job of it. The spell hadn't stuck, and he had been left with slightly darker grease marks and rumpled spots on his trousers and shirt.

All this only served to confirm in his own mind that he had indeed run completely out of luck... and, you know, the minor matter of the **end of the world**.

One small moment of unmindfulness during lunch would now necessitate a trip home for a change of clothes, which would lead to, undoubtedly, a half hour staring blindly into his wardrobe wondering if it really mattered if his tie matched his socks when, in all likelihood, Hermione would be far more concerned by the rains of fire and blood and the sudden appearance of Four Horsemen in the sky.

Okay, _sometimes _Draco spent time worrying about his outfit...

Not that he was conceited; it was just that a man was responsible for dressing well out of respect for the time and effort that his dinner partner went to… Not that he was suggesting Hermione had to go to a lot of time and effort to look presentable; she looked excellent straight out of the shower with nothing on… Not that he was pervy like that; he had honestly just been in the wrong Floo grate at the right time…

Um, he meant _wrong_ time…

* * *

_I'm happy to see so many people adding this to faves and alerts. My thanks to reviewers, and pointed hints to the rest of you. __Third and final chapter (wherein they meet and the world ends) should be up shortly... barring the actual apocalypes. Hasta luego!_

_--Another chapter falls prey to minor edits and additions, because I really just can't leave well enough alone. I even did it twice because the first version didn't save (and not I'm trying to remember if I left anything out). Oh geez. It's a DISEEEEEEEEEEEASE! I'm sick. Someone help me, please! ...Or at least let me know if you notice something's out of order--_


	3. Icecapades in the End, or was it at?

**Crossed Wires**

* * *

_THE END IS NIGH! But don't stock up on bottled water and canned goods just yet. I was referring only to this story..._

* * *

Draco's decision to go home had led to more than just a clothes change. He had showered, shaved, restyled his hair, shined his shoes, changed his underwear, brushed his teeth, flossed and then brushed his teeth again. Someone, somewhere, had once told him that Hermione had a thing about teeth...

So Draco arrived at the restaurant with clean teeth and fresh breath, but empty handed (_a choice he now regretted_). He also arrived late.

Hermione, evidently, was running even later.

He had been a full two minutes late, she was now approaching _double _that.

It was a nerve-wracking wait.

Malfoys, as a rule, were not often kept waiting... They weren't often nervous, either (_unless in the presence of a Dark Lord – or Aunt Bellatrix... that Crouch Jr. of the Bouncing Ferret incident came to mind as well_). And, as a rule, Malfoys did not, under any circumstances, mix socially with Muggleborns.

But Draco broke the rules.

He was a rebel against the system that had produced him.

He was the 'Bad Boy' Malfoy.

Of course, all Malfoys were, by nature, 'bad' (_to understate things_). But Draco was different. Just bad enough to cut it as a Malfoy, but never quite as bad as his parents had hoped.

Draco was the poster boy for moral ambivalence.

That last thought was enough to put a smirk on his face – he half wanted to lean against the wall in the approximation of a moody and troubled delinquent, but he was already seated. And, anyway, good posture was more important than posing… but only just.

He could have made a rather good delinquent, actually, had his parents not so insisted that he stay in school. But then, Draco had always been very good at just about everything he put his mind to... except being bad. He'd failed quite miserably at that.

It had been his very first (_albeit unwitting_) act of defiance against his parents...

All of which served only to completely obscure the issue at hand:

Hermione was now exactly five minutes late...

Five minutes was a long time to entertain worries.

Draco _knew _he should have picked her up from her house. He should have arranged to meet sooner after work. He should have called over the Floo to double check, to reconfirm... just to see her face.

He should call now to see what was keeping her...

No. He should just go home, pour himself a stiff drink and give up because Hermione Granger was _standing him up_.

No! He should call her and _demand_ to know the reason why – other than his luck running out – he was being stood up.

He should… get a grip.

Draco sighed, this had been so much easier over the Floo.

Maybe it would be a good idea to buy flowers, after all?

* * *

Hermione looked good. She had changed her clothes too many times to count (_27 times if you did count_) and she had finally returned to the first dress she had tried on. Which, of course, had also been the first she rejected. It was a classic cut that hugged curves but covered flesh. It was subtle in an alluring manner. It was perfect, in a way that had only become obvious through the failings of all her other clothes.

It was also her last resort.

And it had taken her a long series of breathless moments before she had found it again, lying twisted and mixed up with other articles of discarded clothing. She'd also managed to lose her shoes and bag at the bottom of the pile of rejected outfits.

Somehow she had managed to finish dressing.

After all that fuss and bother, it was no surprise that she had arrived late.

Not that it mattered...

Because Draco was late too:

Seven and a half minutes late.

Hermione knew this because she kept checking her watch at thirty second intervals.

Nerves.

It was ridiculous to be feeling as nervous as she did – Hermione was certain she had been calmer and better composed during the siege at Hogwarts – but she couldn't help worrying. This was a date, hardly life and death, yet...

Eight minutes... and counting.

What _was_ ridiculous is that he had been the one to ask her out. And now he was the one who was late.

Draco had _asked_. She had just said yes. It was his fault.

He had badgered her ruthlessly, in a cute way; harassed her constantly, in a flattering manner; asked again and again, but in a way that made it so hard to say no. Her resolve hadn't lasted long. Eventually, she had given into his charm and agreed (_though she'd told Harry and Ron she consented to this only so she could get a call through without Malfoy tying up her phone and Floo – about the reason he was calling her constantly she remained emphatically mute_).

If this was all a joke, some mean-spirited stunt, she would kill him…

She'd kill him anyway... He was nine minutes late.

She'd gotten dressed up. She was wearing uncomfortable (_but stylishly so_) shoes, she had done her hair and makeup, worn perfume… even brushed her teeth twice (_on account of the nerves_) and **he **was late.

Well, bad luck, Draco Malfoy!

She looked _good_ and he was just going to miss out...

So, she'd been stood up? No biggy. It wasn't the end of the world.

She'd get out of the cold, go somewhere, a little bar someplace nice, and have fun. Maybe call the girls and see if anyone wanted to join her. If that failed, she'd call Harry and Ron and they could go somewhere not so great. The boys tended to get intimidated by establishments she would describe as 'nice'.

She would leave and it served him right.

Hermione Jane Granger waited for _no_ man (..._for longer than fifteen minutes_)!

By her watch that meant Draco still had five minutes more...

Half an hour if he called to say he would be held up.

Forty minutes if he begged. But no longer than that… unless he had a really good reason.

She had her self respect, after all.

* * *

Hermione was twenty five minutes late… or she was standing him up. Flowers or no flowers, she wasn't coming.

Either way, Draco Malfoy was done waiting.

The wait staff inside the restaurant (_whose job description involved waiting_) were starting to give him pitying looks. Clearly, there was something wrong when people working menial jobs felt inclined to offer a _Malfoy_ sympathy.

He was leaving... then he would be leaving nasty messages on Granger's Ansaphone... and then maybe a carefully worded letter via owl post.

Draco doubted he had the energy or emotional stability to confront her face to face over the Floo… Maybe later – after he'd exhausted his current supply of Howlers, at any rate.

Revenge fantasies had always made him feel better. And they'd be the _only_ fantasies he would allow himself to involve Granger in from now on.

She was fully thirty five minutes late by the time he had put on his coat, scarf and gloves and was ready to leave.

The woman at the coat check stand was looking at him strangely, probably because he had taken so long... and she did even more waiting than the other staff, which didn't make Draco feel better. He'd checked the clock twice, not particularly eager to leave just yet, but certainly not waiting for Granger.

He was definitely leaving. Granger wasn't coming, he was sure of that. Especially now, after the maitre d' had informed him that no, no one had rung for a Draco Malfoy (_or a D.M., Dirty Pervert, Santimonious Git or Ferretface_). No, there had been no Floo calls from any women asking to leave a message for a dinner companion. No messages. No owls, either. Patronuses were a very uncommon form of communication, Mr. Malfoy. Perhaps he wished to speak with the manager?

That information confirmed all his suspicions. Forty minutes and still a no show… he was leaving now. _N__ow._

Now!

Just as soon as the second hand ticked past the twelve.

Draco was out of the door forty five minutes after the time he had arranged to meet Hermione.

The knowledge that he had waited at all, let alone that long (_the last ten minutes had really just been to check he had everything still in his pockets and double check that no one had called for him_), was cringeworthy… even if he, the waiters and the coat check girl were the only ones who knew... And the maitre d', the manager and any of the diners who had overheard his inquiries... but that could only be a relatively small number because he had only yelled _part _of the time.

By the time he left, Draco had well and truly broken that Malfoy rule about waiting, only he didn't feel like such a bad boy.

Standing on the street outside the restaurant, he glanced up and down the Alley (_because really, he couldn't sink any lower in his own estimation at that point_), hoping to make out the figure of a small, bushy haired figure hurrying his way…hopefully, wearing a St Mungo's gown and battling a particularly ill-timed case of dragon pox or something equally life threatening.

He could forgive lateness on account of that near death experiences...

Or obliviation, maybe? It would explain why she hadn't had someone else call him for her.

Maybe he should wait just a little longer...?

Wait, that brown hair. Not bushy, but perhaps the right shade – if he squinted. She was about the right size too, but wearing a thick cloak so it was hard to be exact.

The woman was moving in the wrong direction though, _away_ from him, so it couldn't be her.

He would go home and start composing the first in a series of rhyming Howlers to...

"Hermione?"

Draco had been wrong, he _could_ hate himself more. This need of his was pathetic.

The brunette figure turned, her eyes wide and mouth pulled tight in a pale face.

"Hermione!"

No reason to construct a Howler and yell into space as it recorded his voice when she was standing a few paces in front on him... Shouting might just make him feel better about all that pathetic waiting around in a way that a tumbler full of firewhisky probably wouldn't.

There was a word for that: "catharsis".

Draco took a deep breath.

Hermione beat him to the punch, however.

"It's no use. You're too late, Draco."

It was a slap in the face just as he had been winding up to deliver his own punch.

Her voice was small and tired, but it carried the distance, her tone no less cold than the frosty wind whipping both their scarves around their faces.

"What?" He exhaled his breath in a rush.

"Did you expect that I'd jump for joy just because you deigned to show up? Well, guess what Draco, you're straight out of luck."

(_Blast! But, really, he knew that already._)

"I waited for half an hour, Draco! More - almost forty minutes! I'm going home!"

"Now just you wait a minute here…" He'd gone for an authoritative tone and missed completely, it was a whine more than anything.

"I'm going home now. Don't call me. I won't call you. It's better that way for us both. Good bye." Hermione turned and started heading off again.

"No! _I _was going home! _I _was going to shout at _you_! _I _deserve that moment of righteous indignation!" He was yelling to her back.

"Get over yourself." She didn't even turn to deliver that ice-barbed statement. Another metaphoric slap and he had yet to land a blow of his own...

"But _I_ was waiting for _you_! _You _didn't show. _I _waited forty five minutes – forty _FIVE_!"

Hermione took exactly three steps and then stopped. She turned very slowly, "I was five minutes late."

"You couldn't have been," he scoffed. "I was waiting that whole time, watching for you."

"Is that so? You were nowhere to be seen when I showed up. What were you doing - riding a broom ten metres up and staring at the stars while waiting for me? Well, I was at ground level, Draco. And I waited for 40 minutes at ground level."

"Of course not!" Draco couldn't risk flying in the dark any time soon, without his Malfoy luck it would be tempting fate with photos of cracked skulls and saying 'bet you can't give me one of these, nah nah nah nah'. He was unlucky, not insane. "At exactly 7:32 I was sitting at the table I reserved for 7:30, inside the restaurant where I agreed to meet you. Where were you until," he checked his watch, "8:29?"

"I was right here. You said we would meet 'at' the restaurant… that means outside."

"No. I said 'in', which means… 'in'. What kind of crazy person stands around outside (sorry, stands "_at"_) in weather like this?" He mocked. As if to prove his point, the wind blew hard and lifted a few of the curls in front of her face. "You can't expect me to believe that you waited for forty minutes and didn't check inside once?"

Hermione straightened, as if offended. "There are such things as warming spells, you know!" She sniffed, rubbing at her nose, which had turned a rosy red from the chill. "You mean you waited for forty five minutes and didn't think to look out the window?"

"When I said I would meet you _in_ the restaurant I didn't think I'd have to look for you outside!"

"You said 'at'!"

"I said 'in'. And anyway, what kind of person takes 'at' so stupidly literal?"

"You know," her voice dripped with sarcasm, "you've already called me stupid and crazy in the space of a minute. You want to add ugly and make it a trifecta?"

Draco was silent.

They stood, breathing deeply from shouting, their breaths producing small white puffs against the dark night. When he did start speaking, it was in a low, calm and slightly hoarse voice. The hoarseness was definitely on account of all that shouting. Heartfelt sentiment had nothing to do with it... he was still a 'Bad Boy', after all.

"I don't think you're stupid or crazy and you're certainly not ugly. You look beautiful…" he cleared his throat, "you look lovely every day, but especially so tonight."

"Thank you," she replied quietly.

"In or at... It was just a silly mix up that could have happened to anyone."

"We had our wires crossed," for the first time that night a small smile graced Hermione's features. He couldn't help but grin back at her, even though he had no idea what she was talking about.

"What's a wise crust?"

"It's a Muggle – nothing, never mind."

"So, um…" Draco was reasonably certain he was blushing. Stuffing his hands in his pockets awkwardly was about as 'Bad Boy' as he could manage at that point. "Do you want to try this again some time?"

There was a pause. Just a short one. Perhaps Hermione sensed that Draco had done enough waiting that night.

"How about now? We're both here _at _the restaurant, like we agreed." Hermione's smile became stronger at that point, indicating that she was joking around. All the same, Draco recognised her refusal to concede the point.

Clearly, diplomacy was up to him.

"Indeed we are. It was a good thing we made that clear. It could have caused a lot of confusion otherwise."

"Draco?"

"Hm?"

"I'm sorry I was late."

"Me too."

There was another pause.

"Were you worried?" She asked quietly.

"No one stands Draco Malfoy up and lives to tell the tale, so not really." He paused in thought, "Well, maybe a little. Just that, since we agreed to meet _at _the restaurant out here in the cold, you would catch a chill if you had decided to dress in the manner to which I have become accustomed. But since you decided on clothes tonight there was clearly nothing to worry about... Were you? Worried, I mean."

"Yes."

"You were?"

"Oh, terribly. I thought you had walked past a mirror on your way here and hadn't been able to tear yourself away. I was about to call a search party in case you had gone too long without food and water."

"That would never happen. I wouldn't want to waste this handsome visage on such a small audience. Looks like this must be publicly appreciated, it would be a crime for me to hide them away. Deprive thousands of the... the... eh...uh" he sneezed several times in a row. "Come one, let us mutually appreciate each other inside the restaurant. I'm freezing my bollocks off standing here."

"That would be very sad, wouldn't it?"

"For you and me both, trust me."

It was hard to tell if she was blushing when her cheeks and nose were already red from the cold.

"In all seriousness, I _was_ worried. I thought, maybe he's changed his mind. Maybe he isn't interested any more. Maybe I looked better over the Floo than in real life. All these silly little worries just crowded my head out..." Hermione's gloved hands rubbed at her already rosy cheeks. "Maybe I should have worn less clothing."

"Maybe you should have come inside out of the cold?"

"I probably should have. It was really freezing out here." She shivered, as if to make the point clearer that she had suffered.

"You know..." Draco paused, weighing up his options, "you could _Obliviate_ me if it makes you feel better. I'll hate to forget the whole," he waved his hands in the air evasively, "...thing, but I would hate it more that you feel under some sort of pressure because of it. I give you my permission."

He closed his eyes and waited for a word, waited for a flash of light, a sensation, anything that might signal the erasure of a memory that he would never even know was once there. Waiting for a word, then the blissful emptiness of the spell, but he heard nothing more than the wind and the soft crunch of her footfalls in the snow.

"Before I forget," with his eyes closed, Draco missed her smile at the double meaning, "may I just say that you really did look gorgeous? Fresh out of the shower, still sprinkled with small drops of water so your skin was so bright you appeared to be glowing and your hair was sleek and dark from the water. It was this brilliant picture of contrast. You looked... luminous. And before you start with any more maybes, there's more to you than just a glowing gorgeousness. Anyway, blank slate..." No reason why he couldn't get one last double entrendre in. "Wipe me clean, baby."

The cold tip of what could be either a wand or a finger tapped his forehead lightly and traced a trail down the side of his face. Hermione had yet to say anything and he kept his eyes closed. He knew she hadn't performed the spell – he could still remember – and she still looked lovely in his memory.

Before he quite knew what was happening, Hermione had stepped up on her tiptoes, he could feel her small weight press against him as she pulled his head down far enough to plant a kiss on his lips.

It was cold. And it was short, no more than a quick brush of her lips against his before she stepped back, but her eyes shone and a huge smile beamed up at him when he finally opened his own eyes to look down at her.

It seemed that some of Draco Malfoy's good luck was still hanging around...

She made as lovely a picture in reality as she had in his memory; the contrast of the brightness of her eyes and her cheeks glowing from the cold, set against the darkness of her hair and the night and the paleness of her skin and the snow. She was lovelier even, because she was smiling.

Draco touched a finger to her lips, "Mmmmm, frostbite. Come on Snow White. Let's get you inside and try to thaw you out a little."

Hermione punched his bicep, hard. That was, his bicep was hard - any punch of hers wouldn't make a dent to the tightly bunched muscles, Draco assured himself.

"And warm up those bollocks of yours." It was an attempt to have the last word as she let him, aggrievedly rubbing his upper arm, hold the door of the restaurant open for her.

A month worth of suggestive Floo calls should have taught her the danger of playing one-upmanship with a Malfoy.

He stood behind her, and a light shiver that wasn't all to do with the cold ran down her spine as he bent to whisper in her ear, "already raring to go, my little Snow Bunny."

As the maitre d' showed them both to Draco's old table, Hermione's face was practically flaming with embarrassment, even though the rest of her was still stiff and half numb from the cold.

Draco made sure to pat Hermione's bum as the wait staff looked on, flashing a big smile at them as if to say, 'I win. I have a great job _and _I get the girl. Draco Malfoy pities _you_. And don't you forget it.'

Hermione turned back to glare at him before they were seated.

"Keep you cold hands to yourself, Jack Frost."

"Still feeling frigid? No matter, Ice Queen. You'll warm to the idea soon enough."

"So now you're adding frigid to stupid and crazy?" She baited him.

"We already went over this, you're neither stupid nor crazy. As for frigid... fear not my Abominable Snowwoman, I will be your anti-freeze."

"Anyone ever tell you to quit while you're ahead?" Hermione grumbled. "Snow White was at least mildly cute, from there you called me frigid and now you're saying I'm a monster."

"Aw, don't leave me out in the cold..." Draco rearranged a cheeky grin into his very best hang dog expression. Except that as a Malfoy his expression was styled after a much more noble and refined beast. Yes, he thought, I am a _Beast_, which makes Hermione... "my little Artic Fox."

She could only think of just how suggestive Draco could make that last word sound. Her throat suddenly felt tight, she swallowed, licked her lips.

"You really are incorrigible."

"And you're a slow learner - adorable. Sound it out if it's causing you trouble: AD-OR-AB-LE."

She laughed, "Only sometimes"

Draco could be happy with that.

"Enough of the time to save my neck."

There was a short silence as they opened their menus.

"This is my first time here, do you recommend anything? ... to eat?" Hermione amended "...I mean _food_."

He laughed. S_o close_.

Her eyes sparkled even in the low light of the room and he had heard the note of amusement in her voice, at him and at herself. At them together – in and at.

She was a quick one. Hermione was fun and she let him get away with more than he had expected... She had only hit him this once, and not anywhere she could easily bruise, blacken, break or disfigure. He counted himself lucky. He might have been the one who ended up missing their date while convalescing in St Mungo's if he hadn't been lucky.

_There you go_, he thought, _still a lucky bastard_. And then the part of him that didn't do much thinking at all suggested, _let's push that luck and see how far it gets us._

"I make a mean fry up for breakfast," Draco answered casually. "You should try it."

Hermione lowered the menu and raised her eyebrow.

"I can cook!" he defended her unspoken accusation. "Why, I'm offended that you doubt me. I absolutely insist that you come over to find out for yourself. My honour won't be satisfied until you do."

Her menu flipped shut and a second eyebrow joined the first.

"Of course I have a sense of honour!"

She cleared her throat.

"Oh. You mean the food _here_? You had only to say. The fresh sardine is good to start. If you prefer pasta, however..."

"Oh, no, the sardine is just fine... but I think, right now, the waiter wants to take our drinks order."

Draco turned to the man and rattled off an intimidating sounding name and year. Hermione recognised it as red wine, but nothing else. It could be vinegar for all she knew, but having a limited recognition of vintages or blends she would profess to enjoy it, vinegar or otherwise.

As soon as the server had left, she turned back to her dinner companion.

"What I meant, Draco, is that I rarely wake up in time for breakfast on a Saturday. What can you cook up for lunch?"

And, Hermione thought, that is how one breaks the ice...

* * *

_There you go! World saved from Armageddon - worries abated! That's the end of that ... for the time being. Thanks go out to all. I'm sorry to say the Extra-Special Appreciation is for reviewers only. Hope you enjoyed it! _

_--I didn't even realise I hadn't capitalised the title at the beginning. Shock. Or all the little line breaks had disappeared. Horror. And I left the 'g' out of vinegar. But you can all sleep easy at night, it's fixed now--_


End file.
